


It comes with a price

by gealach



Series: We shall burn [1]
Category: Dark Wolverine (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Uncanny X-Force
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Cunnilingus, Dom/sub Undertones, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Manipulation, Mention of Rape/Non-con, Mommy Issues, Multi, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 09:36:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1505597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gealach/pseuds/gealach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daken's playing with Sabretooth, but it takes an unexpected toll. Mystique offers comfort.</p><p>Set somewhere before Uncanny X-Force 31.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It comes with a price

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place chronologically before "I'll come back to haunt you if I drown". It can be read on its own, but gives away some important plot points of the latter.
> 
>  **English isn't my first language** ; I hope you'll forgive my mistakes.

 

“This is a gift, it comes with a price.

Who is the lamb and who is the knife?”

Florence + the Machine – _Rabbit heart_

 

 

Daken made it to his quarters without stumbling, without flinching or screaming. Frustration, self-loathing, indignation burned through his veins, made it almost impossible to breathe. The bile was threatening to come out, swallow the world whole.

But. Calm. Collected. Keep it together. Walk. Don't give in, don't let the bastard see.

He fumbled with the keys, they almost dropped, but he managed to open the door and holding his breath he threw himself into the room. He shut the door, walked, didn't make it to the bed. He fell on his knees, thrusting his fist into his mouth, biting till he felt the strong metallic taste of his blood. He keeled over, head touching the floor.

The bastard.

The _bastard!_

He wouldn't throw up. He wouldn't throw up.

He swallowed his blood. Bit again, swallowed again.

He knew what he was doing. No need to give up. Only a few days now. Almost there.

The _bastard_.

Huddled like a child, like a stupid child. Like he was eleven again, exhausted after one of Romulus's lessons, it didn't matter what kind. His ass throbbing, the taste of his come in his mouth. He swallowed down his blood again, trying to wipe away the taste.

This was nothing. This was nothing, he'd _had_ worse, he'd _done_ worse to others.

At least he hadn't cut, he hadn't known the true extent of Romulus's power over him. Oh, how he would have used him if he had. Would he have let him if he had? At what point would his self-control break, at what point would he give in and stop thinking?

Master.

_Master!_

The indignity of the word coming out of his mouth. _Oh_ , the curling of Victor's lips as he had heard it, thrusting deeper.

He would wipe away that smile. _I'll fuck you over, Victor. Oh, you think you're_ playing _me._

But the thrill of knowing he was playing them all couldn't wipe away the fact that he was curled up like a child, shivering, trying not to vomit, not to cry. Every nerve of his body screamed defeat. He was ten and unworthy, eleven and unworthy, twelve and unworthy, unworthy, unworthy, never enough. Aching, aching.

This was a dangerous game he was playing, and for what? If the price was being reminded of Romulus everytime Victor bent him, was it really worth it for a plan he didn't even know would succeed?

_Control yourself. You are not an animal. You won't let him take control of you._

He would rid himself of Romulus, once and for all. Of Romulus and his influence over him –

 _Like that_ , he had _begged_ Victor. _Like that, like_ that _, oh please, oh please master, hurt me._ Hurt _me._

He screamed, the noise muffled by his fist. He felt tears at the corners of his eyes. _Like hell I will._ He shut his eyes, Romulus's/Logan's face burned in his underlids, Victor's laughter in his ears.

_Burn in hell, Romulus. Burn in hell._

He curled in a ball, nauseous and furious. _Only a few days now. Everything will end, everything –_

Flashes.

Romulus bent down on him, his smile a curse, his nails trailing over him, _into_ him, bending him to his will like the whore he was.

_Hurt me, master._

Victor's smile had been surprised, delighted, obscene.

_I will fuck you over, Victor, I will cut your throat, we'll see who smiles then._

His plan would work. He would track Victor down once revived and shove it down his throat, shove his stupidity down his throat. Oh, the nerve of him! He thought he could use him.

 _He is. He_ is _using me._ Daken bit again his fist. _Oh, not for what he thinks. But this,_ this – when _have I permitted this to get so out of control?_ He _wanted_ it. It had started as something to keep Victor occupied, make him think Daken was wrapped around his little finger. Now he burned with anticipation and nausea everytime Victor touched him.

 _It shouldn't_ be _like this. Only Logan should have that effect_ –

 _Logan shouldn't have that effect. Shouldn't have that kind of control over me. Only Romulus can._ He screamed, eyes wide, at the thought he'd just had. _Damn you to hell. Damn you to hell, Romulus, damn you –_ He almost bit down his entire hand. He was about to unsheath his claws and stab his traitorous brain. _I'm here for this. Focus. Victor's nothing. Have Logan kill me. Have him free me._

_Victor's nothing._

_He's not even that good a fuck. Wonder how does Mystique suffer him?_

A bubble of hysterical laughter came up. He shook, defeated.

A light tap on his door. He froze. He must have been so out of it if he hadn't noticed anyone coming. He sniffed.

Talk of the devil.

“Daken?” Mystique's voice was soft.

He ignored her; she would go away.

The door creaked open; he had forgot to lock it, _obviously_. He seethed. He hadn't the time to sit and feign anything now. _Fuck it all. Fuck Victor, fuck this, I'm out, I'm_ out. He heard her harsh intake of breath.

Mystique entered and closed the door behind her, locking it. She stayed there for a while, there in the dim light.

He took his fist out of his mouth.

“Get out.” With a heroic effort, he managed to seem calm. He sent a puff of pheromones to scare her away.

She didn't move.

“Get _out_ ,” he repeated. Not this, not now. He would face her later, not now that he was so out of his depth, not now that he still ached from Victor's fuck and Romulus, Romulus, Romulus. He needed his wits to face her; of those who were there, she was the only one who could see through his façade. And her loyalties lay with Victor; he knew that. First with herself, of course; always with herself. But now with Victor, too. He heard her fuck him almost every day. He wondered idly what her game with this stupid plan was. Victor wanted to make Logan kill him; what was her goal?

Mystique had moved; now she was near him, and he hadn't _noticed_. _I can't. I can't just now, I can't_ –

“Leave me _alone_ ,” the voice came out strangled and damn him, he wasn't feigning anything. He sent another puff of pheromones, trying to convey that he was so little and pitiful that she didn't need to concern herself with him. She would run to Victor, tell him he had broken him, and damn, it was nearly true. They would have had a good laugh about it. _And then_ I'll _laugh_.

Mystique went on her knees and touched lightly his face. He jerked away, foaming at the thought _Mystique_ was _pitying_ him. He wouldn't look at her face. He didn't _want_ to see her face.

“Come to laugh? What do you want?” He spat.

“Daken.” Damn her. If she kept with the soft voice, he would _gut_ her. “What did Victor do?”

“You need a graphic? Thought you two were an item.”

Mystique scuttled closer, he scuttled away. _Don't touch me, don't come near me, I'll gut you, I'll_ gut _you_. He sent skunk-like pheromones.

She snorted quietly. “That won't work, Daken.” She kept the damn soft voice. Damn her, he wasn't a _child!_

“Daken,” she repeated. “Can I –”

“ _No!_ ” He lost it, “Fucking no. Get out of here, now!”

She reached him and damn, there was the wall behind him. She cupped his cheek and a fucking _sob_ came out of his mouth. He bit it down immediately. It came out strangled, but the sound was unmistakable.

Mystique hissed. She bent down, moving her hand away from his face and to the back of his neck, caressing his scalp. He was about to snarl at her, bite her, scream at her.

He put his head in her lap. He could use this. Mystique would report to Victor that he was more malleable; it would lull Victor even more into a false sense of security.

 _Who the hell am I kidding? Myself?_ He bit hard his lips, shut his eyes as her fingers trailed between his hair. It was strangely soothing. _Bitch. What's your game?_

“I know,” she said quietly. “I know how it is.”

 _Don't you dare. You don't know anything. You, you have no idea. I have no control over myself. Oh, I fool around, yes. I own everything and everyone. But_ he _owns_ me _._

“It's normal. It's perfectly normal.”

The bitch thought that just because she fucked her way through everything she knew what he was going through right now. Oh, how _sweet._ He would almost pity her, if he knew how to.

_She's not the one who's being pitied now. I am._

He needed to be careful. Her words implied she _knew_ he was playing Victor.

He grabbed her thigh and forced a sob out of his mouth. It wasn't difficult; it was just waiting for him to lose a bit of self-control. A second one came uninvited; he stopped the third one, furious with himself. _Use this, don't lose your objective_.

She kept stroking lightly his hair. “Victor can be overly enthusiastic. Do you want me to speak with him?”

Overly enthusiastic? Nice euphemism. Oh, as if that would worry him. Oh, she had no idea. No, it wasn't that, it was that word, that damn word he had chocked out – _master. Master, master, master_ , a prayer, a need – that made him want to stuck his claws into his own eyes. And the bastard.

Had called him.

_Boy._

And his body had _reacted_ to it.

 _Do you want me to speak with him._ Like a concerned mother.

As if. Oh, as if.

He noticed he was laughing hysterically; when had he started? Tears were coming out of his eyes. Tears of laughter. Of laughter.

_Keep telling yourself that._

And she was keeping with her motherly charade, stroking his back. He hated her. Hated her, hated her.

He lifted himself and looked up at her.

Her face.

Concern and worry and pity. _Pity_.

He snarled, noticing his face was wet. He headbutted her on her stomach, furious and nauseous and on the verge of slashing through something. She fell on her back, not a word coming out of her. She kept looking at him like that and he was fighting the instinct to murder her there and then.

“Get out of here,” he snarled. “Fucking hell, Mystique, I'm serious. No, I don't want you to speak with him. Go away.”

She propped herself on her elbows and still didn't talk.

“Don't _push_ it, Mystique.”

She sat, her legs sprawled, and reached out for his shirt. He jerked. “Don't _touch_ me,” he snarled. “Just go away, go away, go away!”

“No,” she said, “Not while you're like this,” and grabbed him by the back of his neck and kissed him.

He fought it. Bit her lip, jerked his head away. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

“Stupid child, give in for a moment. It won't hurt you.” She stroked lightly the back of his neck, pulled gently the mohawk. _What she's playing at?_

“ _I_ won't hurt you,” she said, and at the indignity he gave in, he wanted to shut her up. He crushed his lips on her, bit her, kissed her, kissed her. She pulled him down, her hands still stroking his hair. Like a mother comforting a child.

He didn't know if he was laughing or crying anymore. He was in hysterics, Sabretooth's and Romulus' voices combining together in that single word, that affront. _Boy_.

 _Good, good, this is good, I can use this_ , he thought as he kissed her.

 _Don't leave me. Don't, please, don't_ , a little voice in his head said. He shut it down, deepened the kiss.

 _Hurt me, master, please._ He sobbed into her mouth; she stroked a shoulder with a hand, the other one went down. What was she doing? He heard a sound of fabric moved.

 _Ah, no. Not a pity fuck, no._ He was the one who _gave_ them, usually. They _were_ useful. At the Avengers Tower they had been his weapon of choice, with how much his adorable teammates were all so _deliciously_ fucked up. But he wouldn't permit her to use him like this. He jerked his head away from her.

“Not going to happen, Mystique.” He was actually offended she thought so low of him.

“Don't be so stubborn,” she murmured. Oh, she was good. He could almost believe her. That touch of concern at the angle of her eyes, yes: perfect. He would add it to his arsenal.

She pulled up her dress – why the hell was she bothering to do it when she could simply vanish it? Wanted to do it the old fashioned way? – and spread a bit her legs, looking up at him.

“You're good, Daken, but you're human. I've been at this for longer than you. Sometimes you just need to take a breath.”

“Oh, and you think I need to take a breath? How _kind_ of you. Tell me what you want and then get out.”

She bit her lip. “I'm trying to _help_ you.”

He laughed. It came out strangled. Were there tears again? Fuck, he was losing it. He hadn't had it so bad since 1977.

“Daken, you're shaking.”

When he had seen his father's file.

The photo.

The face.

_Groomed._

_You_ never _loved me, did you?_

“ _Fine_ ,” he snarled, and went down again, kissed her fiercely. She fumbled with his trousers; he growled into her mouth and patted her hand away, pulled them down himself. He wasn't going to let her win this game. This wouldn't be pretty. She wanted to play? Good. It took two to play.

She palmed his cock, stroked it lightly. He sobbed again into her mouth. _Don't you dare being_ gentle _, Mystique, don't you dare_ –

“Shhh,” she murmured into his mouth. “Shhh, shhh.” She stroked his cock and the back of his neck alike.

He hated her. Oh, how he hated her. The hate blazed in his veins, burned him. Coming here and pushing his buttons, feigning concern when he was at his lowlest, when he was no match for her.

She was guiding him inside her as if he were a shy virgin, an awkward teenager. He couldn't even see her face, hidden by the veil which clouded his eyes. He hid his face on her breasts and thrust. Her hips went up, setting the rhythm. It was slow and comforting and he hated her even more for it, tried to quicken the pace, but she stroked his head and said softly, “ _Stop_ it. Let it be. Let it go.”

Defeated, exhausted, he complied. Fucking gentle. Slow and tender. This was a sham. How she would laugh with Victor about this. Feigning maternal concern.

Maternal. This wasn't maternal. But then again, with his relationship with his father figures, one shouldn't be so surprised. He laughed quietly.

“What is it?” Mystique's voice riverberated through her chest.

“I hate you,” he choked out, but kept thrusting.

“I know.” She stroked his hair, kissed his brow.

It took ages for him to come. Damn her. Damn her and this – this – this game she was playing. He was shaking, thrusting, shaking and thrusting, and not even once did she complain. He felt her muscles tighten around him, he knew she needed more.

Oh, she would have to _wait_. Damn her and this feigned gentleness. He wanted to scream in frustration, unable to understand what her angle was. He didn't want this, didn't _need_ this, he needed something else, he needed to be mauled and manhandled, he needed –

1977\. That damnedest day. The day Romulus had told him Logan had killed his mother.

Damn _Romulus_. He had fallen for it like a baby. And Romulus had fucked him for hours, feigning concern, pretending to care, to comfort him. Oh, the irony, oh, _oh_ , he was sickened at the thought. He had been desperate and frantic and nothing was enough, nothing, and he had used his pheromones on Romulus, forcing him to keep going. Romulus had been rabid, out of control, had tortured him for hours, and he hadn't even punished him for tampering with his senses, because Daken had been doing exactly what he wanted, had been offering himself on a platter like a damn sacrifice on the altar of his worship of the bastard. Daken had said things that day, things that had made him foam and curse himself the moment they had left his mouth. Dangerous things. Things like _I love you_ and _don't leave me_. How Romulus must have laughed afterwards! He was everything, he was his compass, the center of his world, and Daken was nothing to him, a child, a chip –

_Stop this. This is counterproductive, and his hold on me will vanish soon. She's playing me, focus on that._

She couldn't fool him; Mystique was doing exactly as Romulus had done; she was pretending to comfort him, using him instead. But this didn't mean he couldn't take advantage of it. Fucking a woman was so simple, so much safer. He drowned in her like a child, focused on the motion – in and out, in and out. So mechanical. There was safety in that. He focused on the softness of her breasts, on the firm hold of her thighs, on her hands stroking lightly his hair, on her voice murmuring nonsense in some german dialect.

He came with a undignified whine, and shook long afterwards, trying not to fall over her.

Damn her, but she had been right. His head was much clearer now. Something about the complete difference between the two fucks. He hid his face between her neck and her shoulder, thinking quickly. He had to reaffirm the power balance now. He slid out of her slowly and felt her dissatisfaction coming in waves. Oh, not so sure of herself now, was she?

He felt himself again. This, he knew how to play.

He took a breath and counterattacked, placing a kiss on her sternum, between her breasts, leaving a trail of kisses down, down, further down. Her breath hitched. “What are you doing?”

 _I'm repaying the debt, dearest_. He reached down and spread her legs wide and spread her inner folds and went down on her. Oh, he would give her something to remember. This was _his_ territory. He went to his knees and lifted her and licked with precision. He would be thorough. She was making soft, wet noises and she _was_ an artist of deception, but this was very real. _Let's see how much you'll tell Victor of this if I make you come so hard you forget your name_. He looked down at her, down the lenght of her body, and saw her watch him from beneath her eyelashes, her yellow eyes glowing. She was surprised and pleased at this outcome. _Oh, darling, I bet Victor doesn't_ do _this_ , he thought, delighted, as he twirled his tongue inside her. Her hips jolted up and he set to the task enthusiastically.

She came with a short scream, practically pushing herself on his face; she even squirted. He smiled at that; it was nice to know he hadn't lost this particular skill. He swallowed her come and licked her clean and went to circle her rim, just because he could and it would unsettle her more. She shivered.

She was breathless; she stayed there for a while, apparently not willing to move yet. He shifted a bit, his thoughts clear now. Why had he permitted that idiot to fuck with his brain? He was nothing, _nothing_ compared to Romulus. This game he was playing? Utterly ridicolous. How could he believe Daken were falling for it?

Intellectually, he knew she had Mystique to thank for this, but he had thanked her enough without words. And still he didn't know what her angle was. She didn't really think he would believe she had been _worried_ about him, did she?

Mystique shifted her legs and rested them on the floor at his sides. She propped herself on her elbows, a smirk on her face. “That was _pleasant_.”

“Likewise,” he smirked back.

_What's your game now?_

She stood and smoothed her skirt with business-like precision. His scent would be all over her now, she had to tell Victor what she had done. What would she tell him? Would she tell him she had found Daken on the verge of a breakdown, that he was broken? This suited his purpose well.

What worried him was that she _knew_ he had a hidden agenda, and she could tell Victor any moment. But not even in their wildest dreams could they imagine towards what goal was he working.

He stood up and pulled up his trousers feigning disinterest at what would she do now. She was looking at him; he could sense her intense gaze. He didn't turn towards her.

She got his meaning eventually and went to the door. At it she paused, hand on the handle.

“Try to get some sleep, tomorrow we need you fresh.”

“Of course.” He looked at her and nodded; he couldn't quite make out her features, standing in the doorway like that, the faint light from the corridor dancing on her face; for a moment her features were utterly soft and wondering. What an artist she was. He admired her, intellectually. She nodded back and closed gently the door.

He locked it immediately, standing behind it to hear whether she was going away.

What a joke. They _needed_ him, sure. They needed their puppet leader. The joke was on them; how he would laugh later. He wondered idly whether he should boycott their sham of a plan, push the little Apocalypse to be more morose than possible. It could be fun.

No time for games, though; he had to be focused on Logan. The curtain was about to rise, the role of a lifetime. His catharsis.

His freedom.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Let it be known I've never written smut before, and I think it shows quite clearly D:


End file.
